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A chance meeting creates an attraction for two people who mutually feel a need to see more of each other. An affair can start as simply as that. This tale is moderately long but necessary to reveal the way in which their emotions develop.
I had slipped away from the office an hour early, so at 5 o’clock, instead of just starting the long commute home, I had driven into the car park of our local supermarket and parked my basic Ford sedan alongside a snazzy little Mercedes Cabriolet. Are Merc’s ever little? This one had a soft top so it was obviously a convertible model … in a metallic powder blue colour, the top in red was closed, probably for security in an open car park such as this. I paused for a moment to admire it, picturing 46-year-old me driving it out on an open road with the top down and the wind on my face and blowing my hair to unkempt.
I surrendered my daydream and darted in to the supermarket to pick up a few items, I had promised my wife I’d cook dinner tonight. She had told me she was going to some fund-raiser late afternoon and didn’t expect to be home until 6.30. I began pushing a trolley down the aisles, thinking to myself how out of practice I am at this sort of thing. Years ago, with a young family, Jenny and I would do our weekly shopping together as a family thing. But through the years, I was earning good money and my wife didn’t need to work, so she used her idle time while the kids were at school to do the weekly shop.
When the kids grew up and left school, my wife went back to work, but only three days a week so she still retained the shopping chore, much to my delight. But here I was on this rare occasion, picking up a few items that I needed to put in the masterpiece that I would cook and call dinner tonight.
I guessed that I had just about all the basics that I needed and I pointed the trolley in the direction of the check-outs, my chosen route conveniently taking me by the bakery aisle where all sorts of sweet temptations awaited me. I tried to be strong and steer a steady course right by until a good looking chocolate mud cake sort of leaned forward on the shelf and said ‘take me home.’ It was the only one there and I had actually walked past it while my mind computed the Looks good enough to eat / you don’t need it argument in my head.
I stopped the trolley abruptly when my salivating mouth overruled any logic in my brain, and turned back to claim the last mud cake on the shelf. But as my hand reached out to grasp the clear plastic container bearing the cake that I really didn’t need, another hand – a paler, fairer, softer one – somehow beat me to it and my hand landed only on the back of that delicate hand that now grasped my mud cake.
“Oh sorry!” I said as I realised that I was holding the back of the hand of a stranger. I continued to hold on even as I turned my head to look closely at the person who had just beaten me to the tasty morsel. She was shorter than me – about 5-5 – I am just over 6 feet – and I needed to look down to see a stunning looking brunette that was well worthy of my lingering glance.
“Oh dear, looks like I’ve claimed the last one, sorry!”
“That’s ok, I didn’t need it anyway, I was only going to indulge myself in something sweet,” I conceded possession to this very attractive young woman so why was I still grasping the back of the hand that held the cake?
“May I?” she was forced to ask awkwardly, her head nodding toward the container in her firm grasp.
“Oh yes … err, sorry!” I stammered when I realised that my silent admiration for the beauty of this woman had addled my brain to the point that I hadn’t even realised I was still holding onto her hand. Reluctantly, I let go.
“They make the best mud cakes here, not bad for a large supermarket chain, even better than that little privately-owned bakery down the road.”
“You sound like an expert,” I suggested.
“Where these cakes are concerned, I consider I am. Sorry I beat you to it. I saw there was only one left as I approached and you looked to have gone past, so I reached out to grab it, never thinking you would turn back.”
“It took me that long to fight off my conscience telling me I didn’t need it,” and as supporting evidence, I patted my hand on my stomach.
“What are you saying, you’re not carrying any excess weight, you look good.”
Wow, did this gorgeous young woman just praise my rapidly approaching-50 body?
“You’re too kind, but at best, I am borderline. That cake you are now holding could have pushed me over the top,” then I quickly sensed that I should be gallant and reciprocate the praise. “You might enjoy these mud cakes, but you can’t have eaten too many of these, you are trim, taut and terrific.”
Oh hell, was that a bit over the top? I realised it was when I saw the surprised look on her face. But then she graciously accepted my compliment, “Well thank you, I don’t get that every day, can I pass on your endorsement to my husband?”
“With my ikitelli escort pleasure, you are an extremely attractive woman, I hope he appreciates that.”
Now she was beginning to look embarrassed so I decided that it might be time to beat a hasty exit, having conceded ownership of the last mud cake to this young woman. “Anyway, I hope you and your husband enjoy the cake. Think of me when you eat the last piece.”
Why did I say that? Goodness me, what was going in my head? I gave her my best smile and steered my trolley around the attractive young woman, heading directly to the check-outs.
At five in the afternoon, the queues were quite long so with a degree of trepidation, I decided I would attempt the new self-serve section where the customer gets to scan all his own items. ‘How hard can this be?’ I thought, ‘I do have an I.T. type mind in the office.’
I navigated my way through scanning my items, inserted the bank notes but, for the life of me, I couldn’t see where the change would come out. As I bent forward to search for my cash, I heard a lilting feminine voice directly behind me, “You’ll find it down there.” It was the beautiful brunette again, passing by just at that moment, conceding though, “they sure do put it in an awkward spot.”
“Oh thanks,” I told her with my best smile but she didn’t stop this time, just kept walking with the last mud cake out of the store. I collected my change from the hard to find tray, then pushed my trolley across the car park to actually find the spot where I had parked. I was loading the bags into the back when I felt someone standing close beside me.
I turned around to see the stunning brunette yet again, “What are the odds of this, we’re parked alongside each other.”
I studied her better now, out here in the afternoon sunlight. She was indeed a captivating looking woman, her hair short nut brown, nearly black with rounded edges, only to her ears on the sides, the back of her neck clear but full in front covering her forehead to just above her eyebrows. She was dressed smartly, a tailored two piece suit – skirt and jacket dark brown with a crisp yellow blouse that didn’t flaunt what looked to be an ample bust beneath. Her figure was indeed hourglass.
“Is it fate?” I asked before I could seriously think of a better response.
“Err, oh I don’t know about fate, just a coincidence I think.”
She was now holding a bottle of wine along with the cake. “Some kind of celebration tonight?” I asked nosily
“Err … oh yes, it is! Our tenth wedding anniversary.”
“Really, that’s great, congratulations,” then looking down to check that she still only carried the two items, I added, “Cake and wine, sounds like a great celebration.”
She laughed, I liked the way her face shone and the delightful giggle in her voice, “Ha ha, not just cake and wine. My husband is taking me out for dinner, it’s a small unlicensed restaurant so we’re taking our own wine. If we can survive the evening without one of our usual arguments breaking out, then the cake – with some cream and ice cream – is dessert for when we get home.”
“Oh, I hope an argument doesn’t spoil your plans.”
“We’ll see, maybe he’ll be on his best behaviour tonight. Enjoy whatever you’re doing.”
“Oh … err, yes, I’m cooking dinner tonight, my wife’s been out at some fund-raiser this afternoon.”
I silently admonished myself for imparting too much detail. ‘She doesn’t want to hear all that,’ I thought, ‘she’s only making small talk with me.’
“I hope it goes well, nice meeting you,” she told me as she slid behind the wheel of the expensive looking powder blue Merc.
“Yes, you too,” I called after her, quickly moving around to the driver’s door of my car before pausing to peer in her passenger side window, admiring (if leching was a word it may have been more appropriate) the huge expanse of bare legs revealed when her skirt rode up high on her thighs as she dropped into the bucket seat. “Nice car,” I added, trying to make it appear as if I was checking out the fine lines of her car – not her body’s fine lines – as I saw that she had caught me ogling those bare long legs.
“Thanks!” she called back before the engine roared into life and I couldn’t hear anything else that she may have uttered, like ‘You filthy old perv!’ or something similarly appropriate.
I stood watching as she reversed from the parking spot and she gave me that wonderful broad smile and waved as she drove away, leaving me to reflect on what a beautiful woman she was and how I would never see her again.
Alright, call me a stupid 46-year-old fool, but I found an excuse to be at the supermarket again exactly at 5 o’clock one week later. I pushed that damn trolley up and down those aisles until nearly six. It was a long shot. Here was me assuming that she might be a creature of habit, always shopping at the same time each week while ignoring the fact that she said she had just kadıköy escort ducked in for the mud cake because that day had been her anniversary. I wondered how it went, had she and her husband argued that night?
When I eventually concede that I wasn’t about to bump into her at the supermarket this day and just when I feared that the management may be ready to call the cops to complain about the shopping stalker roaming their aisles with an empty trolley, I gave up, grabbed one of the two remaining mud cakes and went home to my wife.
That night, I realised that I needed to sit down quietly and reflect on what drove me to waste an hour of my valuable time that afternoon in the vain hope that I might again bump into that attractive young woman. Yes, she was beautiful, gorgeous, a knock out, all of the above, but I wasn’t available and by the sound of her having a ten-year wedding anniversary last week, most likely she wasn’t either. Plus, whatever fantasies I might have, I would definitely be batting out of my league. She surely couldn’t be more than mid thirties. Whatever, that made her at least ten years younger than me. What was getting into my head? Of course, I had become besotted with how attractive she was first and foremost! And then how friendly, but was that specifically for me, or was she just that sort of outgoing person? Was I influenced by her mentioning that her husband and she had regular arguments, did I read something into that, like she might be trying to give me a sign?
Then again, why was I even thinking like this when I was still happily married to Jenny … 22 years now? We’d done a pretty good job raising a close-knit family, our kids still loved and respected us despite them having almost completed their teenage years. Sure, Jennifer and I were not quite as romantic and intimate as we had been in those early years. We both seemed to have our own separate interests these days. She claimed I worked too hard, I reckoned that she was a bit too social, always getting onto some new committee. But we still managed to end up rumbling around in bed together for compatible and adequate sex at least once a week. Oh okay, maybe more like once a fortnight … but we still did it, right!
My thoughts seemed to be filled with the image of the beautiful young stranger for much of the past week, but I came to the conclusion that I best move on. There was no point in indulging in some kind of dreamland, imagining that she had been sent to me to engage me in a wild and uninhibited affair.
Two weeks after meeting the gorgeous brunette at the supermarket, I was driving home one evening. It was only about 6.30, still nearly an hour before sunset. Staring at the two-lane road ahead of me, I suddenly noticed a powder blue Merc approaching … could it be hers, would there be another car so unique in this neighbourhood? Sitting up straighter in my seat, my eyes scanned ahead to check the registration plate before making a fool of myself.
Yes, that was the number, I flashed my lights at her and waved my arm out the window as her car passed by me. It was her driving, that was for sure … but nothing, no recognition at all. What was worse was that there was a guy sitting in the passenger seat alongside her. I presumed that would be the argumentative husband. Was he by now giving her a bad time, asking who was that moron trying to get your attention?
Another two weeks would go by, four weeks now since my fun supermarket encounter. My wife persuaded me to give up my regular Saturday spot on the lounge watching TV sport – just for one week – to accompany her to a fete at the local school where our kids had once attended. Now I went along to every annual school fete for all the years that the kids attended and I figured that I had more than done my duty. But in response to my wife’s request – or was it a demand, hard to tell the difference sometimes – here I was again. Why was I here? I hated shopping … my wife had drifted off to search for bargains and left me to wander alone from stall to stall.
I found myself most appropriately at a cake stall, my gaze alternating between scanning the large range of home-made efforts and admiring the two attractive 30-something school mums whose volunteering task it was to sell them to the masses. In the midst of checking out the young mums, I was startled to hear a lilting feminine voice directly behind me, addressing me, “I don’t suppose they’ve got a spare mud cake?”
I spun around, instantly recognising her voice despite having only heard it once, four weeks ago. I am sure my face lit up at seeing the beautiful young brunette once more, “Hello, hey isn’t this a coincidence?”
“Oh!” she made a look of disappointment, “only a coincidence now … last time you called it fate. Couldn’t it be fate again, particularly at a fete?”
I laughed appropriately at her pun, “Hey, could be! How are you anyway, how did the anniversary dinner go?”
“Oh that, I don’t want to think about it … as I had half kartal escort expected, my husband managed to find a reason to argue over something stupid. I don’t know why I bother.”
“Oh no, I hope you still got to eat my mud cake with the cream and ice cream.”
“Your mud cake? Now listen buddy, I beat you to it fair and square,” and she punched me lightly and playfully high up on my arm. I loved the familiarity of it, impressed that she felt sufficiently comfortable with me – almost a stranger still – to do that. “Well, I sat up and had some cake and he went to bed angry.”
“Oh my God, what a waste. Is the man a fool? How could he go to bed angry when he had such a beautiful woman to be with?”
“Aahh, you’re so sweet! I would like to think that sometimes people don’t realise the value of what they have. I hope your wife does, you seem to be such a nice man.”
How could I answer that? Tell her that my wife adores me or suggest that she could care less when actually the truth lay somewhere in the middle. I settled for an attempt at humour, “She should appreciate me, I tell her all the time how valuable I am to her.”
The beautiful young woman, whose name I still didn’t know, threw her head back and laughed uproariously, “So you have to constantly sell yourself to your own wife … what a hoot?”
“Yes, why not? You know, I was just thinking, I don’t even know your name.”
I just managed to get that out, hoping I’d at last find out, when I heard a much more familiar voice right behind me, “Oh there you are John, I was beginning to wonder what happened to you?”
Caught! I felt a moment of guilt to be here chatting up this beautiful young woman as my wife came up behind me. Did she overhear what I said to the beautiful stranger? Had she been there long enough to see the stranger playfully punch me on the arm? I stammered nervously, “Oh … err … hi Jenny, I haven’t wandered far, I figured you’d see me around here … and you did.”
My wife looked my new friend up and down, asking in a patronising tone, “Err … hello, do we know you?”
Before the lovely mud cake aficionado could respond to my wife’s curiosity, I ventured to answer for her, “I just bumped into this young lady, we battled over who got the last mud cake at the supermarket recently.”
“Oh, I think you mentioned something about that at the time. But darling, that was weeks ago, fancy you two recognising each other again.”
The beautiful young woman spoke up at last, “Yes, such a coincidence,” fortunately avoiding using the word fate while talking to my wife, “Anyway, I must be going, nice to chat again.”
To my great disappointment, she turned and walked off, disappearing into the fete crowd. I still didn’t have her name. My eyes stayed on her departing figure, the wonderful way her curvy arse moved with each step she took away from me. She was wearing tailored shorts, mid-thigh length and a halter top, the bottom of which was tied in a knot beneath her ample bust. I had been able to better assess her breasts in this garment than the demure blouse and suit she wore when we first met.
My wife was talking, I turned to her and had to concentrate to absorb what she said, “She’s a very pretty girl.”
“Yes, I guess she is,” I concurred without revealing any of the enthusiasm I felt inside, managing to avoid disclosing how my heart was beating furiously from the excitement of having caught up once more with this beautiful young woman.
“Anyway, I came looking for you,” my wife continued, “because I wanted you to come and see this.”
I could hear her voice and I dutifully followed her like a robot, having no idea what my wife was dragging me along to look at. It turned out to be a purchase of something ghastly to put into our bedroom and she wanted my approval before she went ahead and purchased.
I was more intent on extricating myself from my wife as soon as possible and running off through the crowds in search of the beautiful young woman once more. That first day, I felt a wonderful chemistry between us and today was no different. I had to know her name or at least give her mine so we might contact each other if either felt the need to meet up again.
I desperately searched through the crowd but couldn’t find her anywhere. I wondered if she had come to the fete with her husband. If she was here solo, then she would most likely have driven unless she lived within walking distance of the school. I shot off to the car park to see if I could find her unique Merc convertible. It didn’t take me too long to spot it and I stood beside it wondering what to do next. I could wait here beside it until she tired of the fete and returned to her car.
But that could take a while and I was sure that Jennifer would be looking for me again very soon, particularly since she found me in the company of a beautiful young woman the first time she left me alone. In desperation that I not let her slip away again without attempting to make some contact, I took one of my business cards out of my wallet. I stood there beside her car, mentally debating where I should put it, or even whether I should leave it. What if her husband was travelling with her today? It could become very embarrassing for her. I didn’t want to cause her any grief with a husband she had already described as argumentative.
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